


Portrait of the Artist

by storiesfortravellers



Series: White Collar Artist AU [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Photography, Romance, Secrets, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal can’t stop thinking about the time he met the lovely photographer and her intriguing husband.  Includes romance, domesticity, mild kink.</p><p>AU where Elizabeth is a photographer who focuses on artistic erotic depictions of men. In this AU, Peter doesn’t work White Collar since he has conflicts of interests with too many of his wife’s colleagues in the art world, so he works for the FBI in the organized crime division. (Neal is still a forger, con, and thief, but has never been caught).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of the Artist

**Author's Note:**

> Set one year after the events in this fic (but you don’t need to read the older fic to understand this one): http://archiveofourown.org/works/512274
> 
> For elrhiarhodan, for a generous donation to helpmidwest. Thank you very much!!!

Neal could hear Satchmo barking at the doorbell, then Peter’s voice yelling “I’ll get it, hon.”

Peter opened the door and stared at him. 

“Neal,” Peter said, voice full of warmth. He smiled widely and gestured for Neal to come in. “Hon, Neal is back.” 

Peter said it as if Neal had just gone out to run an errand, as if it hadn’t been a year since Neal came here.

As Peter took Neal’s coat, he asked, “So who are you pretending to be this time?”

Neal froze. _Of course it was a stupid idea to come back to a Fed’s house._

“Peter, no grilling Neal,” El said, as she walked into the living room and gave Neal a hug. He leaned into her briefly, politely, and tried not to think about the fact that her hair smelled exactly the same as Neal remembered. 

“How are you, Neal?” she asked.

“I’m good. In New York for business,” Neal said. “I’m an art authenticator now.” Actually, he was in town to lift a Matisse, but technically he would authenticate it too.

“I remember, you had a great eye,” El said. She gestured them to come sit in the living room.

“Thank you, Elizabeth. How have you two been?” Neal asked as he pet Satchmo, who was practically leaning on Neal once he sat. 

“We’re good,” she answered, “Though Peter works way too hard.”

“So nothing’s changed, then?” Neal said, and they laughed. 

“And how’s Kate?” Elizabeth asked. _Damn, her memory’s good,_ Neal thought.

“She’s fine. I assume. We actually, um… we’re not together anymore.” Kate had left him six months ago. After years of never even coming close to getting caught, he had taken to taunting random law enforcement and searching for impossible-challenge heists. Finally, Kate had decided that he was too cocky and reckless, that he was just going to lead them to misery. At the time, he had objected, but given that he was inexplicably drawn back to a federal agent’s house, he was starting to think she might have been right on that one count.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” El said, “I know you really cared about her.” 

“I’m okay,” Neal said. He was… sort of. “I’m so sorry to drop by unannounced, but I was in town and I thought, you know.”

“We’re delighted that you came,” El said, and he tried not to stare at the sparkle in her eyes in front of Peter. “Why don’t I make some coffee and we can all catch up?” She got up to go into the kitchen, and Peter smiled at him, a bit like Neal was a particularly challenging puzzle he was enjoying. It was rather disconcerting.

“So, Peter, still with the Bureau?”

Peter nodded, then, and looked tired suddenly. Neal recalled that he worked in organized crime, that El was always worried about the toll it took on him to deal with murderers all day. Neal wasn’t sure what to say, but luckily Peter changed the subject.

“You know, when you left last time, El said that you would come back.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “She have some kind of magic predicting powers?” 

“She just reads people really, really well.”

 _Great,_ Neal thought, _in a house with a Fed AND someone with the reading skills of a top-notch grifter._

Peter continued, “She also said that she liked you. She thinks you’re a loyal person.”

“I like to think so,” Neal said with a smile. 

“I, however, was concerned that you came into our home with a fake name and fake profession,” Peter said.

 _Oh_. Neal could kick himself for just now realizing that this was an interrogation.

“I’m sorry about that. I hated lying to you guys.” Neal winced as he realized: that was the truth.

Peter nodded, still looking at him like he was a damn puzzle. “So if I ask you something now, you’ll tell me the truth?”

“Yes,” Neal said, before he could think. _Please don’t ask why I’m in New York._

“Why did you want to see us again?” Peter asked. His face was open, curious, without accusation. 

Neal took a breath. “It’s been a year, and I still can’t stop thinking about you two.” It was a stupid thing to say, the kind of thing that Neal trained himself for years to never just come out and say. It stung to hear.

Peter’s face softened, though, at his words. He just nodded at Neal, as if he understood, as if he knew exactly what Neal meant, and Neal willed himself to not read too much into it.

El came back then, with the coffee, which she set down on the table, and Peter poured the coffee into the cups for them. 

“You know, Neal, I never got the chance to thank you,” El said, “I was in a bit of a creative rut when you showed up last year, but photographing you with Peter really helped me remember what I value in my work. It helped inspire a new direction in my photos.”

“That’s really… amazing to hear. I mean, it was an honor to work with you,” Neal said carefully. It really was, even if he hated the idea that his face was out there, able to be connected with Elizabeth Burke, famous artist, if he ever got caught. “Were the pictures well received?” 

“Actually,” she said, “I decided to keep them for myself. They seemed a little too… personal to share. Are you disappointed?”

“Relieved,” Neal admitted with a smile.

“I thought that might be the case,” she said, and Neal winced again, realizing that Peter was right: El could probably see right through him.

Still, she seemed happy that he was here. 

They continued talking, and presumably because El was in the room, Peter didn’t ask too many questions that were hard to answer. Eventually, they moved from coffee to dinner, then to wine in the living room. They talked about Scandinavian design (mostly with El) and American history (mostly with Peter), about the latest atrocious political news and Elizabeth’s switch (finally) to digital cameras and photographic software, which had led her into many exciting directions.

They talked for hours, conversation and wine and dessert and more wine, until, past midnight, Elizabeth yawned and said something that Neal was sure was drunken fantasy and not reality: “It’s getting late, Neal. You should probably spend the night here.” 

Neal nodded, almost in a stupor, and followed them up the stairs. He tried not to look disappointed when Peter brought out some linens from the closet and El directed him to the guest bedroom. 

“Thanks for everything,” Neal said. He meant it; despite the disappointment, he hadn’t felt this at home, this stimulated and safe all at once, since… a year ago.

Peter smiled and said, “Good night, Neal,” and leaned in for a hug. It was one of those drunken manly hugs, complete with back pat, that could mean anything or could mean nothing.

But Elizabeth hugged him next as she said good night as well. As her body leaned into his, she whispered, “Don’t wait a year before visiting us again, and next time you might not be in the guest room.”

He stared at her as she and Peter retreated to their own bedroom, wondering if he could possibly have heard that right. As if knowing what he was thinking, she looked back before shutting the door and winked.

He plopped down on the bed, head swimming. 

And when he finally slept, he dreamed of Peter and Elizabeth. Peter kissing softly up the inside of her thigh, Elizabeth biting Peter’s shoulder until he moaned. And all night, he was always watching in his dream, never able to get closer to either of them.

In the morning, he left before either of them woke up.

=====

Neal actually had to visit three more times before he was invited into their bed. He visited them every couple of weeks, always finding some excuse to be back in New York, always finding a warm welcome at the Burkes’ home. Wine and delicious food, pasta or pot roast or sometimes particularly good takeout. Laughter, affection, art, intellect, conversations silly and profound. And always flirtation. Neal was starting to become sure that it was flirtation.

When they were finally together, the three of them, it was Peter who led him into their bedroom, a soft hand pressing in the middle of Neal’s back, guiding him toward the bed. They sat, Neal in the middle, and Elizabeth kissed him, long and sweet and slow. Neal looked over at Peter, to see his reaction, and saw nothing but desire. Peter kissed him them, forceful but careful, his hand gently gripping Neal’s waist. Soon Neal’s shirt was off, and it was lips on shoulders and arms and chests, Peter’s and Elizabeth’s clothes coming off, the long planes of their skin glistening with the beginnings of sweat. Elizabeth in lace, skin contrasting with lines of midnight blue, and Peter nuzzling her neck, kissing her legs, as Neal did the same, a line up her thigh just like in his dream, except that this time they were allowing him to be there. Soon he was encompassed by them, by lips and limbs and heat in ever changing configurations, and soon after he was lost, he was nothing, Peter inside of him, him inside of Elizabeth, and it was nothing but the sensation of slow rocking, of being engulfed in need and release.

They held him close, after. Whispers of appreciation all around, slow caresses of tired bodies. Neal couldn’t remember a more perfect moment.

He still managed to sneak out of the bed and leave before dawn. But he decided that he could find a way to be in New York every weekend.

 

=====

The first time Peter wasn’t there, Neal was worried. It turned out that he was worried for all the wrong reasons. 

“Peter and I have talked about it, of course,” Elizabeth said, assuring him that the two of them could be together even though Peter was working late. “But we can text him to verify.”

Neal smiled. “Obviously, I believe you, I just-”

She smiled and patted his arm, and then got out her phone and let him watch as she texted.

Soon they received a reply:

MESSAGE FROM PETER’S CELL: will be working v v late tonight, you 2 have fun.

Neal smiled at El. The two of them alone -- this was new. But it definitely didn’t sound bad.

Just then her phone sounded another incoming text message.

MESSAGE FROM PETER’S CELL: Tell Neal not to leave before I get home to say hi. 

Elizabeth winked at Neal. “He’s not usually this bossy. I guess you must bring it out in him.”

Neal wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But he wasn’t about to ask when he was about to have his first night alone with Elizabeth. He was oddly nervous. 

Probably sensing it, Elizabeth asked him if he wanted to see her new series. 

“I’d love to get a painter’s perspective,” she told him.

They went to her workspace and she showed Neal several photographs of men, their bodies painted in black ink and white paint, the pictures themselves using fade-out effects to combine black and white and color photography, highlighting the contrasts between flesh and ink, body and glyph. Sometimes it was delicate calligraphy, decorating a torso with swirls and arcs, sometimes it was thick, rough brushstrokes, stylized patterns and ambiguous figures dancing on legs and hips. 

“These are stunning, Elizabeth. And the painting – I had no idea you worked in another medium.” 

She laughed. “I’m no great painter on a canvas. I only know what to paint when I can think about how it will look in the photographic frame.”

He stared some more at the pictures.

“Would you – would you be interested in doing one like these?” she asked. “Feel free to say no. And we could keep it private – just for you, me, and Peter.”

Neal turned to look again at the photographs. It was getting very, very difficult to say no to them. He was pretty sure this was going to be a problem at some point.

Soon, his clothes were off, and he was sitting on the mat on the floor, leaning forward. Elizabeth sat behind him, her long legs along each side of him, as she concentrated on painting his back. He felt the tickle of the lean brush, short fast strokes in different directions, going from left to right. It felt like writing.

He wanted to ask what she was saying, what she was marking him with – promises or threats, slurs or impish jokes -- but he felt it was forbidden, somehow, as if he would be breaking the rules of some ritual. 

When she was done, she patted his hip lightly so that he would move. She positioned him then so that he was kneeling, his back facing the camera, his body bending over to give stretch to the words on his skin. She set up the lighting, and the brightness almost blinded him even though he was looking down. He heard the click of her camera for several minutes before he felt her hand lifting him up to a standing position.

“I love the pics,” she said, smiling. “Let me load them onto the computer and you can see them.”

He was happy; he was always happy when she or Peter was pleased with him, and he knew that was stupid, it was a recipe for breaking, but at the moment he couldn’t help it.

“I’ll shift the coloring of the picture later,” Elizabeth said as she brought up the photo. “But you can see the raw version.”

Neal looked at the picture of himself. It was simple script, elegant but not ostentatious, covering his back. The lighting and pose made him look muscular yet somehow ethereal, like a man out of myth, like a body made to carry secrets. 

He read the words. A poem, free verse, describing a man, his body, his face, how their love changes and grows but holds fast over years and years and years….

A poem about Peter. Elizabeth had written a love poem to Peter on Neal’s back. 

There might have been some men who would have been offended by a poem about another man. But Neal felt a rush of something, some sense that Elizabeth was doing him a kindness. That the picture was saying something about him and Peter and Elizabeth, the three of them, though Neal wasn’t quite sure what. 

“I guess we managed to include Peter tonight anyway,” Neal said softly, swallowing down any headier emotions.

She smiled and leaned in for a kiss, her hand reaching around him to bring him close, and he wondered about the ink on his back, about her hands smearing clear words into a mysterious abstract, shifting the form but leaving the underlying truth unaltered. He kissed her neck and her arms, then, all the way down to her inky fingers.

Later that night – much later – Neal and Elizabeth slept in her and Peter’s bed. Neal had woken up in the middle of the night and considered leaving, but each time he remembered Peter’s text and decided to sleep just a little bit longer.

Finally, past four in the morning, Peter comes home. Neal hears him enter the house and then the bedroom but pretends to be sleeping still.

Peter walks over to Elizabeth and leans down to kiss her. She stirs and he whispers, “Sorry, it’s just me, go back to sleep.” They murmur things to each other then, tenderness and familiarity, and for a moment Neal feels that he should not be there. He feels the intimacy between them, the oneness, and its proximity only makes it keener that he is not part of it. 

“Good night,” Peter finally whispers, but as he steps back, Elizabeth tells him, “I left the computer on the dresser. Look at the photos I took of Neal. I want you to see them before he leaves.”

Peter answers with a sigh, “Neal is always leaving. He shows up and then he runs away.” 

“Do you think we should stop being with him?” she asks, displeasure in her voice even as she seeks an honest answer.

“No, I just think we’ll have to get better at catching him when he runs,” Peter whispers with a smile as they kiss again. Neal lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding.

“Don’t treat him like one of your cases,” El teases.

“No promises,” Peter says, and Neal could hear the smile in his voice.

El nestles back into the blankets then as Peter walks over to her camera on the dresser to look through her recent shots. When he comes back he whispers in El’s ear a last good night and tells her, “The pictures are amazing.”

Peter gets into bed then, on the other side of Neal, where there’s more room. He scoots in and Neal instinctively moves up to make more room for him. 

“Sorry to wake you,” Peter whispers.

“It’s no problem,” Neal answers, trying to sound as if he were groggy, like he had been sound asleep until that second.

“Neal?”

“Yes?”

“In the morning. Say good bye before you leave this time, Neal.”

Neal is silent for a moment.

“Neal,” Peter says, in the voice of a schoolmaster warning an unruly boy.

“Yes, Peter,” Neal says, and before he could be embarrassed at his ready response, Peter has curled up next to him. He could feel the curve of warmth surrounding his body, the tickle of Peter’s breath on the back of his neck, the softness of El’s body in front of him, his arm around her waist. Neal leans back into Peter then and closes his eyes. Sleep comes without trouble.

=====

“El, take a picture of his face,” Peter said. There was a crack in his voice, desperation.

They were on the bedroom floor, Neal on his hands and knees, Peter kneeling behind him, moving inside of him, and, at Neal’s request, roughly grabbing Neal’s hair to control his body. It was working for Neal; he had asked Peter to order him around, to manhandle him, to smack him and spank him and control him, and it was _working_ for Neal. But he wasn’t expecting a camera, and so he stilled at Peter’s request. 

“Please, Neal, I need – I need to see your face.” Peter was begging, whimpering almost, but there was a low seed of aggression in his voice that said everything: he wanted all of Neal. He wanted to witness Neal lose control; he wanted to see Neal come undone.

Neal realized suddenly that he wanted it too, and the thought terrified him.

“I know a hotel. Huge mirrors. Mediocre room service,” Neal quipped, mostly to deflect.

“I want to see you through El’s eyes,” Peter said, his hand caressing Neal’s hip now, as if he could smooth the fear out of Neal’s body. “I need to see how it feels when she sees you like this.”

“No one would ever see the picture, Neal,” El said, “You know that.” She was watching, getting herself off, having decided that it was high time that she got to see ‘her boys in action’ on their own.

 _No one but us,_ Neal thought. But then Peter moved out, and then in, a deep glide that made Neal moan, made him grip the strands of carpet beneath his fingers in need.

Neal nodded then. He hated the idea of seeing himself like this, of having to look at his own face so naked, exposed, hopelessly lost. But the idea of Peter seeing his face, of Elizabeth capturing this moment and Peter looking at it later, of Peter and Elizabeth keeping the picture, all for themselves, forever… Neal couldn’t say no.

They asked him again, and he said yes, he yelled it practically, and soon after he heard the camera, saw Elizabeth moving around them, taking them from different angles. Neal tried to imagine that the camera wasn’t there, that no one could see him, that there was nothing wrong with contorting his face and losing composure and letting Peter destroy his self-control with relentless pressure and pleasure and bliss. 

After, they lay on the floor, messy and sweaty. Neal leaned his head on Peter’s chest, felt the rise and fall of heavy breaths, then slower. 

“Is there anything else I can – is there anything you want?” Peter asked, then, softly. “Let me give you what you want, Neal. Tell me what you want.”

If Neal were in his right mind, he would have said something else. But in that moment, exposed and weary and possibly senseless, he answered, “I want to keep doing this. I want to never stop doing this.”

Fondness swept over Peter’s face, maybe even something more. He leaned down to kiss Neal, long and sweet and breathless.

Neal heard the click of the camera as they kissed. He didn’t even mind.

====

Neal told them he was going to move his “base of operations” to New York; he would still travel from time to time, but he would usually be in the city with them. 

Neal had confidence in the paper trail he had established for the art authenticator persona. He had gone to the best to make sure that on paper, it looked like he was an independent contractor in art authentication for years (he knew that Peter wouldn’t be able to resist looking him up, so Neal memorized his fabricated past to the letter). He even started taking a few legit authentication jobs in New York just to solidify the cover. Peter had a few questions about the name Neal originally told them, but it wasn’t so unbelievable that someone might want to use a pseudonym when trying out nude modeling. And, thanks to Mozzie’s diligent research, Neal knew for a fact that there were no criminal acts associated with the name Neal Caffrey; some of his aliases, maybe, but nobody had managed to get much on Neal.

At first, Neal was worried that Mozzie would begrudge him all the time he was spending with the Burkes, but Mozzie said, “Thank goodness you found something to do other than cry over Kate. Besides, I’ve been trying to get us set up in New York for years.”

Neal still worked jobs, but he started being a little more careful, also to Mozzie’s relief. Before, he always poked a little at law enforcement, wondering if he could find someone interesting to match wits with. Now, he focused on not getting in some federal database that would mean Peter could stumble across his real profession.

Sometimes, he painted. He didn’t want to arouse Peter’s suspicions with his skill at imitation, so he was forced, for the first time in his life, to make a serious effort to develop his own style. 

He also did his best to be supportive. He could tell Peter was working undercover jobs, pretending to be a vicious man when he was anything but. It took its toll on Peter, and on Elizabeth too, who was constantly worried about him (so was Neal, but it wasn’t his place to say).

Sometimes, Elizabeth and Peter would argue about it. Why Peter couldn’t go back to white collar, why he couldn’t retire and go into private practice? Neal could tell that Elizabeth didn’t want to be the kind of partner who asked him to be less than he was, but he knew that she could only be pushed so far. One time, she told Neal that Peter had once been kidnapped, barely gotten back alive. She had never really gotten over it.

When they argued, Neal quietly waited for it to be over. He felt ridiculous; never more than during an argument was it so clear that he was an outsider here.

But usually, they kept the peace. Almost always, they talked and they shared and they exchanged hugs at the end, and then the Burkes were the Burkes again, and Neal was part of them again.

They manage to be both mundane and exciting. They go shopping together, run errands together, go to baseball games and galleries and operas at the behest of various members of their trio. Peter and El meet Mozzie, and Neal meets their friends, and unexpectedly, neither is a disaster.

Elizabeth thinks she should do a new series just for their eyes, private photographs documenting Neal and Peter as they try new things together in bed. 

“A whole series of Neal and I having sex?” Peter asks.

“Kinky, innovative sex where you’re constantly trying new things,” El corrects.

Neal and Peter look at each other. 

“Only because I’m a big supporter of the arts,” Neal said with a smirk. 

“I have the best wife in the world,” Peter replied.

They research new ideas on the internet, are mostly confused but occasionally aroused by what they find. They try new things as El snaps pictures of them, in their moments of _hell, yes_ and their moments of _maybe more like this than that_. They ask her occasionally to set the timer and join in the on the picture, but she begs off: “You know photographers hate being photographed.” Elizabeth joins them in bed whenever she’s not behind the camera, though, so they can hardly complain.

They find small conflicts here and there, but they get through them. Peter and Elizabeth manage to convince Neal that he is truly part of their life, and Neal tries to convince him that his occasional secrecy means nothing, reflects nothing of his commitment to them. They bicker over toothpaste and television, and they bond over fireworks and holidays and warm comforting caresses after long hard days.

For a long time, it is wonderful.

Until it’s not.

 

====

A Degas, and an exquisite one at that. 

He and Mozzie are casing the place, Neal is attending the gala as a guest named George Danvery to see how the painting is housed, Mozzie is posing as part of the janitorial staff to check out the basement entrances. The food is decent and the champagne is actually good; they never are at these things, but somehow this must be a magical night. The alarm system is one that Neal has overwritten three times on two continents, and Mozzie was reporting good news on his end as well. Neal was looking excellent in his tuxedo, even if knowing it did make him full of himself, and he had already picked out a few potential marks in the crowd for after the heist.

He is almost tipsy with the excellent champagne when he feels his arm being pulled into a side room. 

It’s Peter. 

For a second, he is delighted to find Peter here. Peter, with his strong arms and fitted tuxedo and slightly crooked bowtie.

Then he wonders why Peter is there and starts to worry.

“Peter, so happy to see you,” Neal says with a grin that he knows is too large, too false. “Is Elizabeth here too?”

“No,” Peter says, jaw tight. “I’m here for work.”

“What does Degas have to do with work?”

Peter seemed to grow angrier at his innocent act. “Neal, I just arrested a man who claimed that he hired two thieves to take the Degas.”

Neal swallowed. If he were someone Peter was going after, Neal and Mozzie were better off not dealing with the man at all. But that didn’t mean that Peter could prove anything, Neal thought desperately.

He smiled again. “Peter, I should have known it would take a crime to get you to an event like this.”

“Neal,” Peter said, voice low and breaking, “We flagged a name on the list, known for being a master forger. George Danvery. The host pointed you out as him. You’re George Danvery.”

“He must be mistaken.”

“And I am positive that five minutes ago I saw Mozzie in a janitor’s outfit. Neal, I didn’t want to believe it.” Peter was almost shaking now.

“Peter, it’s not what you think.”

“You’re not Danvery?”

“I’m promise you that’s not my name.”

Peter shook his head. “Are you serious, Neal? You’re going to try to tell the truth on a technicality? George Danvery is known worldwide for his...”

“Skills?”

“Criminal acts.”

Neal swallowed. “Have you told the Feds yet?”

“I am a Fed! Neal, how could you do this to us?”

“My job doesn’t have anything to do with how I feel about--”

“Your _job_? This is not a job, Neal. You’re smart enough, talented enough to do anything. We invited you into our home, Neal. We wanted to give you _everything_.” Neal had to wince from the rage in Peter’s voice, from the betrayal and hurt, from the sense the two of them were, at this moment, seeing everything fall apart.

“Peter, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied.”

“Why would you make us think you wanted to stay with us? You knew that you’d get caught or you’d have to run at any moment.”

“I don’t get caught,” Neal said.

“You just did,” Peter snapped.

“Are you arresting me?” Neal asked, flinching almost.

Peter closed his eyes. “Turn yourself in, Neal. You – George – is wanted for a dozen crimes. We’ll go home tonight and talk to El. Tomorrow, I’ll get you the best deal possible.”

“I can’t do that Peter. Please don’t… please don’t make me say no to you.” Neal sounded desperate now. He knew he was playing on Peter’s feelings. But if it had been anyone but Peter confronting him, Neal would already be out the window and two blocks away.

“I can’t… I can’t do this. With you. Do you understand, Neal?” Peter looked wrecked. Wrecked and impossibly tired, bags under his eyes from too many long nights and disappointments.

“Let me tell Mozzie to run,” Neal said. 

“You’ll run too.”

Neal was silent.

Peter rubbed the bridge of his noise. Finally, he looked at Neal, resignation in his eyes. “Just go. Don’t ever come back to this gallery.” Neal could see the self-loathing in his eyes, and Neal at that moment hated himself too, for making Peter become something that went against everything he believed, someone who let criminals go without thought to all their future heists.

But this was his chance.

And he had to take it.

He left, fast, calling Mozzie to get out at once too. They met at their emergency location and Neal told him: they would have to leave the country. A smart, relentless agent that Neal had been sleeping with for months had just discovered them for who they were.

“I’m sorry, mon frère,” Mozzie said, with a kind hand on Neal’s shoulder, “The three of you were good together.”

“Were,” Neal said, and refused to say anything else. 

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Mozzie said. Neal nodded and sat down on the curb. The air was thick with summer heat, and even though it was night, it was hard for Neal to breathe.

 

====

Neal and Mozzie go to Amsterdam, then the south of France. Then Italy, Turkey, Australia, Japan, Cape Verde, Brazil, and to many places in between. Their heists are successful and only moderately flamboyant. Neal doesn’t enjoy them as much as he used to, but he’ll lose it without the challenge.

He tries not to think about Peter and Elizabeth. He makes sand sculptures of them and leaves before the waves wash them to sea. He drinks Elizabeth’s favorite tea and pretends that he’s doing it for the taste. 

He sends Peter a card on his birthday and Elizabeth a card on hers, cards that say nothing but “Best wishes, N.” He hopes desperately that they know he’s not being flippant, that he writes nothing more because there’s nothing more for him to say, nothing that can make it up to them or bring them back to him. 

In December, he sends them a tie, a dress, a cake, and two watches. He also sends a bone for Satchmo. He is careful to only send things right before he leaves the country it is postmarked in.

Mozzie is concerned for him, but Neal brushes him off. Neal meets some people, a woman in Cape Verde, a man on the Riviera. They leave when they figure out Neal is still hung up on someone else. 

He has been away from New York for a year and still dreams about them every night.

Some nights are worse than others.

On an especially bad night, he’s at a grocery in Vienna when he sees the wine that he and El and Peter drank on the first night he came back. He buys a bottle and drinks it all and sleeps all night.

In the morning, his head is pounding. He can barely stand to pull down the shades.

He sees the empty bottle on the floor, slides down the wall to sit next to it. He holds the bottle in his hands and thinks about everything he used to have.

He wills himself not to cry. Only a fool would cry for things that he lost when it was his own damn fault he lost them.

He sits there for a long time before the door opens.

He waits for Mozzie to ‘tsk’ at him.

The man steps nearer, and Neal looks up. It isn’t Mozzie.

“You never write, you never call,” Peter jokes, his brow furrowed. He looks nervous.

“I wrote,” Neal objected.

Peter sat down next to him.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“No. I quit the Bureau.”

Neal stared. He wasn’t sure if he should believe it. 

Peter continued, “But not before I surreptitiously chased down a few leads on you.”

“You chased me halfway around the world?”

“Almost had you in Cape Verde,” Peter said. 

Neal had to smile at that. Leave it to Peter to find him. 

“Why did you quit?”

“Lots of reasons. I figure I’ve put El through enough fear for a lifetime. And also… I thought that if I’m going to ask you to give up your job for us, then I should think about doing the same for you.”

Neal gaped at him.

“Not that our jobs are morally equivalent,” Peter quickly pointed out. Neal rolled his eyes and smiled.

Peter continued, “So I know you think stealing, conning, all of that, is your job. You think this is what you’re good at.”

“I am good at it,” Neal pointed out. 

Peter nodded. “I know. I put together a few of your aliases. You’re the best forger and thief they’ve seen in a long time.” Peter actually sounded… impressed. “But you could be the best at something else.”

Neal winced. “Is that why you came here? To make me turn myself in?”

“No. I came here to bring you home.” Peter looked at him, then, waiting for a response.

Neal stared at him again. “I thought you hated me.”

Peter’s face changed. “No. I felt… betrayed.”

“You had a right to.”

“I did,” Peter agreed. “And now it’s time for us to figure out how we’re going to get past it.”

“Peter, don’t pretend you’re okay with what I do. I know you.” Peter didn’t just join the Bureau for his ambition. He believed that crime needed to be punished, that justice must always be done. At least, Neal thought he did.

“Of course I’m not okay with what you’ve done. That’s why I need you to not do it anymore. Neal, if I’m not an agent, I can pretend to know nothing about your past. But I can’t do that if you’re continuing to commit crimes. It would go against what I believe in. It could also get me and El in huge trouble. And we shouldn’t have to love you while waiting for the other shoe to drop, because you can’t build a stable home when you’re running from your last job. You know I’m right, Neal.”

“So, you’d be an ex-agent and I’d be an ex-thief. And that’s it. You’d just forgive everything else.”

“We would figure out everything else. Together.” Peter was leaning into him now, concentrating on him, like that first day when Neal felt like he was a puzzle and nothing could stop Peter from solving it. 

“I just – don’t know if I can,” Neal said, in desperation. He was telling the truth; he had been a con artist his entire adult life and he wasn’t sure if he knew how to be anything else. He didn’t know how to live without masks, without lies.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” Peter said with a grin. “You can figure it out. If – if you still want to.”

Neal bit his lip to at least try to stay dignified. “Of course I want to.”

“Then you’ll try,” Peter said, half question and half order.

Neal was silent for a long moment.

Finally, he nodded.

“Then let’s go home,” Peter said with a smile as he helped Neal up. 

Neal smiled back, and suddenly felt a thousand times lighter.

===

On the plane ride home, they sat next to each other, legs touching as if they were afraid to let any distance seep between them. 

“So, you’re in the private sector now? Financial auditing?” Neal asked. It would be a practical job – Peter got many offers for it – but a boring one for someone like Peter.

“No, actually. I’m going to work in security testing to help prevent theft and property breaches,” Peter said.

“Wait. Testing. That means… you’re going to break into buildings to test their security, right?” Neal said.

“Yes,” Peter sighed, knowing what was coming next.

“So… I’m going to make an honest living and you’re going to be a thief? Wow, you really have embraced the spirit of compromise.”

“I’ll be an honest thief,” Peter corrected him. “And you’ll be an honest painter or authenticator or whatever you want to do. That’s honest.”

Neal nodded, smiling at Peter’s earnestness even as it was a comfort. “I’m sorry you felt you had to leave the Bureau. I know you were a really great agent.”

Peter smiled, almost smugly. “So since I found you in Vienna… I guess that means that if I were in the white collar division still, I probably would have caught you years ago.”

Neal kind of wanted to shrug that comment off, but he’s looked Peter’s record up; Peter closes _a lot_ of cases.

“Speaking of,” Peter added, “You know that if you ever run away from us again….”

Neal waited for the threat. 

Peter continued, “I’ll just keep finding you.”

Neal exhaled. He smiled at Peter and told himself to stop tearing up. Then he leaned over to give Peter a kiss, soft, almost chaste. “Counting on it, ex-Agent Burke.”

 

===  
When they arrived home, Elizabeth opened the door for them as they took their bags in. Standing there in the living room, Neal waited for her to tell him how awful it was, how cruel it was to pretend to be something he wasn’t for so long, and then to leave without a good bye.

Instead, she raised an eyebrow at him and said, “I thought I made it clear that you weren’t to go a year between visits anymore.”

They laughed then, and then Neal knew for sure; they weren’t conning him. He was home.

 

===

 

Epilogue:  
Two years after Neal comes back (again), Neal is the most sought after authenticator in the city. He has gone back to his old ways only twice – once when Mozzie was in trouble and once when Alex was, each time going to Peter and Elizabeth first to tell them that he was only going to con some criminals who were endangering his dear friends, and that, if they preferred, he would let Peter come as security backup and make sure the violent criminals got arrested by the end (they did prefer it, but otherwise, amazingly, they refrained from excessive judgment. Of course Peter grumbled quite a bit about Neal’s choice in friends, but El claimed that Peter was just jealous.)

Neal also paints his own original artwork in three different styles, which he then sends to galleries under three different pseudonyms. After all, there’s nothing wrong with having a few extra selves lying around. As long as Peter and Elizabeth know all of them.

Peter has found great success as a security consultant. Occasionally, Neal might offer him advice on how to penetrate the toughest security systems, and between Peter’s integrity and competence and Neal’s inside scoop, he had plenty of business. El even suggested once that Neal might like to join Peter in breaking into highly secure buildings, but Peter suggested that they wait until Neal was on the wagon a little longer before letting him near any diamond safes or vaults full of treasure.

Elizabeth’s career continues to grow, and she has the reputation of being one of the leading artists exploring the female gaze. She wonders if this reputation will change when she unveils her first self-portrait.

The photograph is of herself on a bed, a man on either side of her, the dark-haired man kissing her right shoulder, the lighter haired man kissing her left breast. Their hands are groping at each other; she is grabbing both men’s shoulders, holding them close, as Neal’s fingers move inside her, as Peter’s hand reaches over to Neal’s dick. All three of them are naked, but the men’s faces are turned away from the camera. No one could identify them if they tried. 

The picture also shows empty wine glasses scattered around the bed tables, books left open by the headboard, half read. Mismatched pillows, crumpled sheets on the floor, sunlight softly sifting across them in the dawn light. Jewelry in a loose pile, a half eaten croissant. A setting equal parts erotic and domestic.

Her face was at the center of the photograph, and no one could describe her expression as anything other than ecstasy.

Her boys had finally convinced her to be in one of their pictures. Even if photographers usually hate being photographed.

She stared at the picture as she decided if any alterations needed to be made before showing it. Peter walked in as she looked and stood behind her, holding her waist. 

“Both your faces are hidden,” she said.

“But yours isn’t,” Peter said. 

She looked at the photo, analytically, clinically. Seeing it with the photographer’s eye, as if it were someone else’s love, someone else’s ecstasy, on display. “My facial expression works for the picture,” she finally decided.

Peter kissed her on the forehead. “You look beautiful in it.”

She sighed. “Critics will call it ‘self-indulgent.’ The ones who like it will say it’s ‘unapologetically erotic.’”

“It is unapologetic.”

“What’s to apologize for?”

Peter smiled. “You don’t care what critics think.”

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve spent my whole career avoiding the self-portrait. I guess I didn’t expect my first would be so… honest.”

“I love your honesty. So do your followers.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Though if I’m no longer taken seriously as an artist, I should be able to get work photographing men’s backs. You two look spectacular.” 

“You and Neal look spectacular,” Peter said, brushing off the compliment. 

“We all look exquisite,” Neal said from the doorway. 

“Neal – when did you get here?” El said as she and Peter walked over to embrace him.

“Just now. Is that going up in the gallery?” he asked as he hugged El, then Peter.

“Yes,” Peter said, pride in his voice. 

“Can I bid on it?” Neal asked.

“If it’s with honest money,” Peter said.

El laughed at them both. “Don’t worry, Neal. I always save a copy just for us.”

Neal stood with them, both their arms wrapped around him as they looked at the photo.

Neal felt like he wanted to cry with joy.

But he swallowed it down and said, “Make extras, please. Lots and lots of extras.”

(end)


End file.
